Harde Is His Heart That Loveth Nought

Ful Wys Is He That Kan Hymselven Knowe.

Yet In Our Ashen Cold Is Fire Yreken.

Or As An Ook Comth Of A Litel Spir, So Thorugh This Lettre, Which That She Hym Sente, Encressen Gan Desir, Of Which He Brente.

Hyt Is Not Al Golde That Glareth.

Love Will Not Be Constrain'd By Mastery. When Mast'ry Comes, The God Of Love Anon Beateth His Wings, And, Farewell, He Is Gone. Love Is A Thing As Any Spirit Free.